It Is October

By Vince Casaregola

It is October, and throughout the neighborhood, at some houses, there are the signs of monsters on the lawns–large skeletal beings, sinister scarecrows,  sheer and wispy fabrics of ghosts. Some float in the wind, some fill with hot air, some shake and speak in raw voices. They scare the dog when I walk her, and they might scare small children under the age of 5. They are decorative.

It is almost November, and throughout the neighborhood, at some houses, there are the signs of monsters on the lawns, but these signs are verbal, not embodied. Still, they embody much that is more frightening–“Take Back America,” “Trump 2024,” “Christians for Trump,” “Guns are Freedom.” These have little impact on the dog, though she does urinate near some of them. They would not scare children under the age of 5, most of whom would not be able to read them. They scare me. 

The monsters of these signs are the manifestations of lies and hate. They claim solidarity with those who cry out for violence, those who see naked emperors and do not care if those emperors are unmasked or unclothed, only that such emperors will encourage their hate and celebrate their violence, allowing those in the crowd, in the mob to cherish their own egocentricity as an emperor cherishes his. 

These monsters reveal an epidemic of addiction, not to the drugs that flow in the veins and shatter the brain, though those are terrifying enough, but to the drug that flows through the psyche and shatters the soul, the drug of power and the endless desire for more power. This is the addiction to power in all its dayglow orange face and its musky monied mania. Those few with concrete power dance on the stage, and the millions before them raise fists, raise arms, saluting with all the arrogant anger that the Nazis did many decades ago (and in places still do). They are the growing mob of mayhem, madness, and even murder. MAGA—Make America Grotesque Again.

It is the Fall, and we see signs of the possibility of a fall—from wisdom, from grace, from reason, from responsibility. All because the drug of power is so addictive, that not education, nor money, nor religion, nor achievement can keep the addicted from wanting, from needing more power, power promised but never really given. No matter, they are the ones grown mindless despite themselves, chanting for the leader, the orange emperor, chasing in the wake of the madness, raising fists, raising voices, raising weapons. See the signs—really see the signs. The signs are all around us and closing in on us. The signs shout and defame. They are not decorative–they are demonic.

Vince Casaregola teaches and writes in the St. Louis area, where he has lived for over 30 years. A collection of his poetry, Vital Signs, will be coming out from Finishing Line Press in July 2025. He has a particular fondness for old black-and-white films from the 40s and 50s.